Monday, March 10, 2014

"...our anxiety is less the mind shielding itself from death
than the spirit's need to be. It is as if each of us were always hearing
some strange, complicated music in the background of our lives, music that, so
long as it remains in the background, is not simply distracting but manifestly
unpleasant, because it demands the attention we are giving to other things.
It is not hard to hear this music, but it is very difficult to hear it as
music."

Christian Wiman My Bright
Abyss

I am never sure I understand exactly what Wiman is talking
about, but what I do get is rich and feeds me for a long time. That may be why
it's taking me months to read this book. Every phrase, every sentence makes me
stop, read it again, and then ponder it. Very rich and very good!

This particular quotation struck a chord (excuse the pun) with me
when he talks about all the things that clutter up life, preventing us from
hearing that "strange, complicated music." Returning from Nicaragua,
most of our team have said that we return with many questions. What we saw and
experienced is like a strange and complicated symphony--full of lovely melodies
and disturbing discords.

Now we are back to work, to school, to the regular patterns of
our life--patterns that can seem to drown out that other music. But not quite.
The roosters are still crowing in Las Mercedes. The school children are still
shuffling into their seats at NITCA. The iron gates are still clanking closed
at Hansae,

And we are here in the last days of winter, looking forward to
spring, but the strange music of Nicaragua still rings in our ears. Let us hope that we keep hearing those notes of beauty and oppression and that someday we hear more clearly the healing harmonies.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

A friend told me last night that she saw a crocus popping up. God, I love those beauties. They are so defiant. They will not let this winter, any winter, keep them down.

Right now it's 10 degrees out, and my yard has snow banks three feet high, and it's March 5 already! I can pound my mittened fists and say it's time for spring, but being a true New Englander, I know springtime is a variable concept.

But those crocuses don't care. They shoot up through the snow and give us a glimmer of hope, just enough to get us through another frigid day.